A Certain Kind of Sadness
by Stanleigh
Summary: New Forest, August 1919. The Treaty of Versailles has been signed, and the "war to end all wars" has drawn to a close after five long, bloody years. Captain Dennis Stanhope and Second Lieutenant James Raleigh are expected to re-enter a society that only believes in the scars it can see. But the war has taught them that no price is too great and no consequence is too costly...
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: I (devastatingly) own none of the Journey's End characters or locations etc. The only thing I own is the plot of this story. The title is taken from a line of Gotye's 'Somebody That I Used To Know'._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I strongly recommend reading Journey's End by R C Sherriff (if you haven't already) before reading this fic. I'm not sure how much sense any of it will make otherwise, particularly with regards to the complexity of the relationship between Stanhope and Raleigh. It's a play, so it should only take a couple of hours to read cover to cover- and it's excellent literature too! And before we start, I would like to make one thing very clear: this is __**not **__a D/S fic, a domestic discipline fic or a domestic abuse fic. The violence at the beginning of this chapter will not be appearing frequently in future chapters. Furthermore, none of the characters in this fic are in __**any way**__ sexually aroused or excited by this violence or its accompanying behaviour- in the early twentieth century, such methods of violence were common and were not often considered to be unacceptable, harmful or arousing, as they perhaps are today. This fic is about two men coping with the aftermath of a bloody and traumatising war, both of whom are also having to come to terms with their sexualities in a society where to be homosexual could land one in prison. Nevertheless, I implore you to proceed with caution if you feel any of this may upset, offend or trigger you. And now, we begin._

Chapter 1

"Dennis, please."

"Trousers down and bend over the desk."

"_Dennis_."

"I won't ask you again, Jimmy."

"I've still got marks from last week!"

"That's not my concern."

Raleigh blinked. He was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and it was taking all of Stanhope's will-power not to grab him around the waist and force him over the edge of the desk himself. He sighed irritably.

"If you do as you're told then I'll only give you ten."

"_Please_, Dennis-"

"Any more protests and I'll make it fifteen."

"We're not at Barford anymore!"

Raleigh looked to be on the verge of tears. It unnerved Stanhope; the boy was usually relatively compliant, if sulkily so. Boys like Raleigh responded well to authority, with the memories of public school as fresh as those of the war. Almost against his will, Stanhope took a few steps forward, reaching out a calloused hand to stroke Raleigh's cheek. The boy flinched away on instinct before leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering closed as a small sigh escaped his lips.

"You know why I do this, James," Stanhope murmured, and the use of his full Christian name caused Raleigh's eyes to snap open. "I don't want to hurt you-" Raleigh snorted lightly "-but I need to channel it all somewhere. Anywhere."

"I thought that's why you picked up rugger again," Raleigh muttered sullenly. "There's only so much my arse can take."

Stanhope grinned. It hurt his face, as though his muscles had forgotten how to do it. "Fifteen. Fifteen and that's it. I promise."

"You said ten!"

"Ah, but you know I don't tolerate backchat." Stanhope removed his hand from Raleigh's cheek brusquely, motioning for him to turn around as he glanced at the carriage clock. "Come on, then. Let's be having you."

Raleigh remained motionless a moment longer, pleading eyes locked with Stanhope's, before letting out a shaky breath and turning to face the large desk. It was gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, which flooded through the frosted windows of Stanhope's study. The net curtains had not been drawn. He raised trembling hands to his belt, loosening it as slowly as he dared, before wriggling out of his braces and letting his navy suit trousers fall to the floor. Face burning, with droplets of sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, he pulled down his underwear and bent hurriedly over the polished mahogany surface. Stanhope took a moment to appraise the boy's backside, as pale as the rest of him except for the fading purple marks discolouring it. He felt an odd sense of repulsion- even at Barford, when one of his duties as House Captain had been to thrash any troublemakers, he'd always been careful to ensure _his boys_ were never bruised. And yet now, as the memories of the war were beginning to make their unwelcome return, he seemed to have lost all sense of decency. He would shelve his morals, his principles for a few minutes and relish the opportunity to vent his rage upon the only person he knew would understand _why_. Swallowing determinedly and tugging off his own belt, folding it to keep the harmful buckle firmly in his palm, Stanhope let the first strike fall.

The _crack_ of leather on vulnerable, unprotected flesh echoed around the locked room. Raleigh inhaled sharply, hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white, but otherwise made no sound. Stanhope could feel the frustration, painfully acute yet blurred around the edges, bubbling to the surface. He'd had to keep it carefully suppressed throughout luncheon, with Madge and her mother discussing the engagement and Raleigh looking as though he were close to either screaming at them all or bursting into tears; Stanhope himself had been torn between the desire to slap the boy and kiss him senseless.

"Count them," he growled, and Raleigh tensed.

"One," he whispered uncertainly, jolting forward as Stanhope landed another strike. His hip-bones knocked sickeningly against the desk. "T-two." He maintained his silence until strike seven before the faintest of whimpers escaped him. Stanhope ignored it, the usual red mist having now descended, clouding his vision as he landed strikes eight, nine and ten in quick succession on the same spot. This time Raleigh cried out, the sound seemingly ripped from his throat as he stuttered out the numbers. He shifted desperately from foot to foot, though he made no move to stand; he had learnt the hard way that escape attempts were futile and only earned five extra strikes. On strike twelve, Stanhope heard a choked sound catching in the boy's throat, and felt the familiar mixture of vindictive satisfaction and guilt, white-hot, surge through him. The guilt was somewhat stronger these days, far stronger than the satisfaction, but his head was still fuzzy with fury and he ploughed on regardless.

After landing the final three strikes on the backs of Raleigh's thighs, Stanhope allowed the belt to drop to the hardwood floor with a clank. The boy's shoulders were shaking, face buried in his arms. Stanhope was confronted with the sudden desire to pull him into his arms and rub soothing circles on his back, but pushed it away in horror. This- this _arrangement_ wasn't about tenderness. It wasn't about feelings. It couldn't be. He threw himself down onto the leather sofa next to the bookshelf.

"You look ridiculous. Pull your trousers up," he snapped, much more coldly than he had intended. Raleigh flinched again, before making a visible effort to get his breathing under control. He had had trouble catching his breath since the war; it was why he could no longer play rugby. He still played cricket- his father never missed an opportunity to announce loudly whenever the family was with company that his son kept wicket for the eleven, as Stanhope had at school- but rugby had always been _his game_. He had received his colours for rugby whilst at Barford, Stanhope remembered dully. Another minute, during which the red mist began to drain away from Stanhope's vision and that strange but welcome calmness settled into his muscles, and Raleigh pulled up his underwear and trousers. He sucked in the air through his teeth as the rough material came into contact with his backside. Stanhope noted absently that the boy had lost weight. He had always been skinny, despite the rugby, but now he was beginning to look distinctly undernourished. Stanhope frowned. Now he considered it, Raleigh hadn't really eaten anything at lunch- only cut up his beef and pushed it about his plate. He wondered if the boy was ill. He certainly looked it: he had dark circles under his eyes and his face was an unattractive grey. But before he could voice his concern, Raleigh turned on his heel and strode over to the locked door. He tugged fruitlessly on the wrought-iron handle.

"Open this door, if you please, Dennis," he said tonelessly, voice carefully controlled. His mousey brown hair was damp and sticking to his sweaty forehead; Stanhope's fingers twitched with the desire to smooth it back. His resolve hardened on reflex.

"Storming off in a huff, are we?" he asked nastily.

Two pink spots flared on Raleigh's cheeks. "I'm afraid I have a busy afternoon," he answered shortly, struggling to maintain his monotone. Stanhope sneered.

"Wedding planning with Madge and your mother, is it?"

"I would much prefer that to an afternoon with you."

A silence fell. Raleigh was clinging to the door handle as though it were the only thing keeping him upright, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly. Stanhope thought he could detect a flicker of apprehension, but nevertheless narrowed his eyes.

"Do you need to go back over that desk for another fifteen, James?" he asked smoothly, dangerously. A threat like that would usually subdue the boy, have him blanching and shaking his head, eyes fixed on the polished wood flooring.

"Don't talk down to me as though you're still my commanding officer," Raleigh snarled, taking a few unsteady steps towards the centre of the room. He looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed. "The war finished nine months ago."

"And yet here I am, still having to remind you to keep that lip of yours in check."

Raleigh paused. His hands were trembling- psychosomatic, according to the doctors, only to occur when he was particularly stressed- and he clasped them behind his back. Stanhope was suddenly reminded of an eighteen year-old junior officer, hair slicked back, uniform pristine, eyes wide and shining with boyish excitement.

_I'm awfully glad I got to your company, Stanhope._

"I wish you wouldn't hurt me. I don't like it." The statement was so childish, so pathetic that Stanhope once again felt like slapping him. The image faded.

"You know why I do it," he snapped, "We've been through this." His sinuses were beginning to throb and he prayed that it wasn't another migraine coming on. He refused to meet the boy's eyes. He was already fighting with an urge to apologise.

"It doesn't mean I have to like it-"

"No, but you have to put up with it."

"Maybe I don't want to." Stanhope's head jerked up. Raleigh's startlingly blue eyes were damp, but his jaw was set. He looked ready for a fight. "What you do to me- it isn't right. I won't stand for it any longer." The effect was ruined slightly by the tremors in Raleigh's voice, but he looked much older than he had at luncheon. "I've put up with it for so long because I love you-" Stanhope winced "-but if the war's taught me anything then it's how precious life is. I don't want to waste mine."

"And that's what you think you're doing, is it? Wasting your life, here, doing this?" He felt cold, despite the stagnant heat of the August afternoon; his palms were clammy and his upper lip felt horribly damp. He suppressed a shiver.

Raleigh wiped his face fiercely with the back of his hand. "You're taking advantage of me," he whispered accusingly, and Stanhope felt a tightening in his chest. "You know how I feel about you and you're using it to play your sadistic little games-"

Stanhope had backhanded Raleigh across the face before he had even realised that he was on his feet. The boy stumbled slightly, reaching out for the edge of the dresser to steady himself. He looked up at Stanhope reproachfully, who felt a little shocked at the suddenness of his violent response. He had hit Raleigh before, of course, and aside from a little sulking from both parties nothing had been thought much of it- but this felt different. It felt _wrong_. He turned away, shaking out his hand; Raleigh's cheekbones were sharper than he remembered.

"I won't have talk like that," he said shakily. "You know I don't find your pain… _pleasurable_. That's not the point of all this. You're wrong to insinuate such things."

"But you enjoy being in control. You like knowing that you have authority over me."

_D'you understand an order? Give me that letter!_

"But I don't like it in that way. I'm not a sadist." Stanhope turned around, an almost pleading expression on his face. "Hurting you doesn't… _excite_ me." He cringed at the clumsy wording. "Damn it, how could it after the war? If there was a way- any other-"

"There is!" Raleigh implored, closing the space between them and grabbing the hand that had struck him between both of his. "You don't have to drink, you don't have to thrash me to cope with what you've seen. What you feel. If you would only talk to me-" He broke off as Stanhope snorted derisively, jerked his hand away and moved to throw open a window. Madge and her mother were sat on the lawn, china teacups in hand, poring over what he assumed were wedding dress patterns. The sunlight was catching Madge's hair- so like Raleigh's- and causing it to gleam an attractive chestnut. Her white dress was so bright, stood out so starkly against the dying lawn and wilting roses that it hurt Stanhope's eyes to look at it. He turned away.

"I only hit you when I absolutely have to," he said dully, moving back to the leather sofa. "I bottle it up and bottle it up and hope that it will all go away but it doesn't and I just- I _have_ to do something. I _have_ to get rid of it all because if I don't then I'll- I just _know_ I'll…" He trailed off, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief for something to do. He couldn't say the words; couldn't voice his biggest fear, not even to Raleigh, who would of course know anyway. He always knew these things.

He didn't look up as Raleigh sat down beside him, ignoring the stab of regret in his chest at the sharp, pained intake of breath. He closed his eyes as the boy- tentatively- rested his head on Stanhope's left shoulder. He sighed, almost in resignation, and reached out to take his hand. He rested their interlinked fingers on his knee, thumb stroking gently over pale flesh. Raleigh pressed their legs together. There was silence in the study except for the slight fluttering of the net curtains, and the ticking of the ornate carriage clock above the desk.

"Do you hate me?" Stanhope murmured finally, and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. He winced at the sound of it, hating the vulnerability there. Raleigh shuffled closer to him, his soft hair tickling Stanhope's ear.

"I _love_ you, Dennis. You know I do."

"In spite of what I do?"

"I've had worse from my father. Haven't we all had worse from our fathers?"

"Never at Barford, though," Stanhope remembered, and suddenly he was grinning again. "You were such a good boy before the war."

Raleigh huffed indignantly. "I still am. Not that you seem to think so." His hand tightened slightly around Stanhope's. "You ought to be glad I'm not married else my wife would be wondering what I was up to, coming home all battered and bruised."

"_You_ ought to be glad that _I'm_ not married yet else this-" Stanhope gestured to their interlinked hands "-wouldn't be happening nearly as often as it is now."

Raleigh sat up abruptly then, and Stanhope felt oddly bereft at the loss of the warm, comforting weight of his head on his shoulder. "What's going to happen after the wedding?" he asked abruptly, and Stanhope inwardly cursed his own lack of tact. "Is this- will this- will it all be over?" The boy's voice wavered on the word 'over' and Stanhope suddenly felt drained. They couldn't have this conversation. Not today. In a few weeks, perhaps, but not today. Everything was too confusing. Tugging Raleigh firmly towards him, he pressed their lips together in a chaste, gentle kiss to avoid answering. Raleigh instantly melted, all tension leaving his body as he felt Stanhope release his hand and snake his arms around him. The kiss deepened, and Stanhope instinctively tightened his grip on the boy's thin waist. The familiar tingles were coursing their way down his spine, and he had to fight back a moan of satisfaction as one of Raleigh's hands tangled in the dark hair at the nape of his neck.

They broke apart, both panting slightly. As usual, it took Raleigh a little longer than it should have done to catch his breath. Stanhope, in a surge of protectiveness, pulled the boy against his chest and let his arms tighten just a fraction more around him. He willed the frantic beating of his own heart to cease. Resting his chin on the top of Raleigh's head, he savoured the closeness, the heat that seared between them, despite the muggy August air that hung, stale, in the room.

"You're wasting away," he remarked softly. "I can feel your ribs."

Raleigh shifted. "I don't get hungry anymore."

"Lads your age never stop eating. I was always hungry when I was nineteen."

He felt Raleigh yawn against his chest, and smiled slightly in spite of himself. "I eat at the club most nights. It's not important. There are other things to worry about."

"Perhaps. But I still worry about _you_."

The words were out of Stanhope's mouth before he fully registered their implications. He stiffened, praying that the boy wouldn't get the wrong impression, but he didn't seem to have noticed the slip- or was pretending that he hadn't.

"I think I'd believe that more if I couldn't still feel the lacerations on my arse," he pointed out, but not unkindly. Strangely that made it all sound much worse, as guilt, hot enough to scold, swelled through him. He swallowed, hoping to sound offhand.

"Does it really, truly bother you? What… what I do?"

Raleigh sniffed. "I love you, Dennis. Now shut up for a bit, there's a good chap." He curled his body further into Stanhope's, sighing contentedly. Yet the answer, somehow, left Stanhope feeling more uneasy than he had for the entire afternoon.

_TBC..._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Any feedback is much appreciated and greatly valued. Thank you very much for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

Chapter 2

Stanhope awoke to warm breath being blown steadily into his left ear. He opened his eyes but- strangely- it made no difference: everything was still as dark. Yet he could sense the presence of a body, small and solid, pressed very close to him. Too close. It was crowding him and suddenly Stanhope was finding it rather difficult to catch his breath. He wondered how long they had been out here, and whether there was anyone else alive but the two of them. He wanted to move his arms to push this unknown person from him, to put some thinking distance between them, but it was squashing his right side against something solid- something _cushioned_…

It was then that Stanhope realised that he was sitting down. He shot up in alarm, knowing that he wasn't in his dugout and wondering wildly whether he was in casualty clearing. A sleepy groan from behind him had him reaching for his belt to draw his revolver, panic surging through him as he realised he wasn't even _wearing_ his belt. But it was becoming lighter than it had been when he had first woken. There was the soft drone of a combine harvester and the chirping of birds to his left, and he suddenly became aware of the harsh throbbing in his head. He stumbled slightly.

"Dennis…"

The soft, worried voice broke through the haze and brought his surroundings swimming into focus at last. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief as he realised that the warm body had been Raleigh, and that they were both, still very much alive, in his private study. He spotted his belt lying on the floor, a few feet from his desk. He couldn't remember taking it off, but he supposed he must have done. He reached up to check his ear, and laughed giddily as his fingers did not come away stained red. He turned to smile broadly at Raleigh, who smiled weakly back with sad, conflicted eyes. His brow was furrowed with worry, and Stanhope felt a sudden urge to kiss away whatever pain the boy was feeling. He lunged at him, ignoring the cry of alarm, and fastened his lips to Raleigh's, who groaned in response and immediately opened his mouth. Stanhope slipped his tongue inside and for a moment they battled, teeth clashing and scraping together. He grasped Raleigh's shoulders and pushed him backwards, barely pausing for breath as he shifted on top of him to pin him down. He felt the boy's hands scrabble desperately at his back, clinging onto his shirt.

"Dennis," he gasped, as Stanhope turned his attentions to the boy's jawline, "Dennis, are you alright? You woke up- and you didn't seem to know-" He cut himself off with a high-pitched moan as Stanhope's lips attached themselves to the column of his neck. Stanhope grinned and sucked harder on the pale flesh; Raleigh's hips gave a violent, unexpected twitch and they both toppled off the sofa onto the wooden floor. Stanhope bore the brunt of the impact and quickly rolled Raleigh under him again, pinning the boy's slender wrists down with one hand and turning his attention to the deep groove of his clavicle. Raleigh quivered, eyes fluttering closed, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his jaw fell slack.

"Dennis… Dennis, stop, you're going to leave marks!" he choked out eventually. Stanhope merely growled in agreement and scraped his teeth across Raleigh's collarbone; the yelp and shiver he received in response stirred something hot and fierce in the pit of his stomach. Never had he felt so alive, so feverish with desire and so certain of his every move as he did in this moment. Raleigh was slowly coming apart underneath him, writhing and squirming with every flick of his tongue and scrape of his teeth and he felt so _powerful_. It was _he_ who was causing this reaction- _his_ actions, _his_ judgement. He moved hungrily back up to the boy's lips, rubbing their bodies together; the friction it created was exquisite, and Stanhope bit down hard on Raleigh's bottom lip. He swallowed the boy's squeak, and a harsh, guttural sound formed at the back of his own throat as the metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.

"Stop now, Dennis," Raleigh panted as Stanhope sat up frenziedly, right hand shaking as it fumbled fruitlessly with the buttons of the boy's white shirt. The breathless quality to his voice ignited another surge of desire behind Stanhope's navel, but he paused, releasing Raleigh's wrists and instead placing his hands on either side of the boy's head. Raleigh's lips were red and swollen, the bottom one split; several tiny droplets of blood had trickled onto his chin, the blazing red a sharp contrast with the milky white of his skin. His hair was falling onto his forehead, and he was once again drenched in sweat. Stanhope waited patiently for him to catch his breath, admiring the marks he had made on the boy's neck and clavicle, itching to do the same to his chest. In a surge of possessiveness, he swooped down to lick a stripe over a dark bruise beneath his jawbone.

"I said stop!" Raleigh's voice was stronger now, higher and almost hysterical. He lay staring up at Stanhope, eyes wide and pupils dark with- with what? Desire? Confusion? Lust? Stanhope made a noise of discontent and sat back, knees placed artfully either side of Raleigh's waist. He folded his arms, one eyebrow arched, huffing impatiently. Raleigh swallowed and licked his damaged lips nervously. The carriage clock above the desk primly struck a quarter to four.

"The window's open," the boy whispered at last. Sure enough, the chimes of the church clock could be heard faintly, along with the subdued chat of Madge and her mother from the lawn. Stanhope did an incredulous double take.

"You damn prig!" he hissed, jumping up and slamming the window. The two women jumped and looked around, startled, but the frosted glass obscured Stanhope from view. He hauled the net curtains shut in a temper.

"I'm just being careful!" Raleigh said, eyes imploring. He had finally raised himself to a sitting position, and was wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his crumpled shirt. Stanhope scowled and threw him a handkerchief. He was beginning to come down from his high, leaving a cold, unfulfilled chill to settle where desire had burned. He snatched up his belt and threaded it angrily through the loops in his trousers, avoiding eye contact with Raleigh, who was making no move to stand.

"I'm sorry," Raleigh said quietly. "It wasn't that I-" He coughed in embarrassment, changing tack abruptly. "It would ruin everything if we were caught. For Madge as well as for us. If it got into the papers then it'd condemn her to spinsterhood."

"Well, aren't you the thoughtful younger brother all of a sudden?" Stanhope snarled spitefully, aiming a kick at the nearest leg of the desk. "Perhaps you should have considered your sister's honour _before_ you fell in love with her fiancé."

Raleigh flinched. "I've always loved you, Dennis," he said softly, dejectedly, and Stanhope wanted to shake him. "Always. Since my first day at Barford. All through the war. And now." His voice suddenly turned bitter with derision, self-hatred. "And you have the best deal, don't you? Marriage to the sister who adores you, and a- I can't say I know _what_ we are- with the brother who loves you so much that he'll let you thrash him just so he can be close to you. You've got the entire family eating out of your hand."

The guilt that crashed down upon Stanhope then was so heavy and so unexpected that he swayed slightly. The furtive glances, the façade of decorum, the sneaking off behind closed doors wasn't easy on either of them, but at least he wasn't being forced to watch the love of his life marry another: his _sister_, no less. He had been so immersed in himself, wallowing in his own guilt, his own memories, his own disgust at the injustice of it all that he had forgotten that Raleigh would be hurting and feeling and remembering too. Since the end of the war Raleigh had quietly morphed into whatever Stanhope had needed him to be: allowed himself to be used, hurt and humiliated for Stanhope's own relief, and coped with his vicious temper, his cutting insults. All without fuss, and without judgement. With pure and undeniable devotion.

Stanhope suddenly felt rather sick. He looked down at Raleigh, who was leaning against the wall, eyes half-lidded, legs drawn up to his chest. He seemed to sense Stanhope's eyes on him and looked up hesitantly, offering the handkerchief back.

_I'm awfully sorry, Dennis, if- if I annoyed you by coming to your company._

Stanhope took it wordlessly and held out a hand to help Raleigh up. "Whiskey?" he offered awkwardly after a moment. Neither had let go of the other's hand.

"Please." Raleigh perched gingerly on the sofa whilst Stanhope fumbled through his liquor cabinet, making a show of pushing aside Irish cream, gin, his ever-expanding collection of brandies and the half-empty bottle of vodka he'd been given on the quiet by the Russian Ambassador at the end of the war. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he dragged the large decanter of Scottish malt down from the top shelf, removed the ornate stopper and sloshed two decent measures into glasses. He thrust Raleigh's into his hand without looking at him, knocking his own back and quickly refilling the glass before Raleigh had swallowed his first sip. The amber liquid scorched the back of his throat and he immediately felt his nerves settle. He knew where he was with whiskey. He was aware that Raleigh- pure, unspoilt Raleigh- secretly preferred the honeyed taste of brandy, but this afternoon needed its edge taken off. By the time Raleigh had drained his glass, Stanhope had downed four measures and was feeling distinctly calmer. He felt pleasantly fuzzed at the corners.

"Refill?" he asked jovially, but Raleigh shook his head.

"Better not. I'm driving back." He shrugged at Stanhope's questioning glance. "I wasn't sure how long we'd stay so I let the chauffeur to take the penny bus home."

"I didn't know you could drive."

"I'm not very good," Raleigh said quickly with a short, embarrassed laugh, "I only started learning six weeks ago. But it can be awfully thrilling on an open road."

"Perhaps you can teach me? After the wedding."

Raleigh's countenance visibly drooped at the mention of the wedding and he shook his head. "You wouldn't want to learn from me. You'd be better after an hour than I was after a month." He dropped his glass onto the side table at the edge of the sofa as the clock struck four. He sighed at the sound of the pert little chimes, and pushed himself to his feet. "I'd best be off," he said gloomily. "Thanks for the whiskey."

Stanhope snorted and pushed him back down firmly, his calloused fingers deliberately brushing over the boy's slender wrist. "Stay for dinner, you chump."

"We haven't got clothes to change into."

"I don't care about that. And my parents are up in town so we needn't worry about them."

"I don't think Madge would approve," Raleigh said flatly.

"I don't care."

"You should. You're going to marry her."

Stanhope fell silent for a moment. The subject of the wedding, no matter how hard they tried to avoid it, seemed to keep creeping up on them and there was a question on the tip of his tongue that he was struggling to find the nerve to voice. He couldn't decide if it was an appropriate request or if he would be asking too much of the boy. Sinking to his knees- at which Raleigh's eyebrows shot up in alarm- Stanhope looked him in the eye, ignoring the awkwardness as he rested a palm on his thigh.

"I want you to be my best man," he said softly. He swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry, as Raleigh's eyebrows shot up even higher and the blood drained from his face. He looked down hurriedly, as though the eye contact was burning him.

"W-Why?" he stammered. Stanhope sighed, moving to sit beside him.

"Because you're Madge's brother; we've known each other eight years; we fought shoulder to shoulder in France; and most of my other friends are dead," he answered matter-of-factly, nudging him with his shoulder. "Plus you're a pretty decent chap."

"Oh, thanks awfully, I'm sure," Raleigh mumbled weakly, raking his trembling hands through his hair. He glanced around at Stanhope, who was staring at him expectantly. The colour flooded his face again. He opened and closed his mouth, before sitting up a little straighter and jutting out his chin. A defensive stance.

"I'd like a few days to consider it, if it's all the same to you," he said stiffly. "I'll need to look over my engagements for the coming months. I'm set to be frightfully busy already." Stanhope's heart sank a little in disappointment, but he nodded his ascent.

"Of course. When can I expect your answer?" It all sounded horribly formal and he hated it. Raleigh was glaring moodily into the fireplace, setting his jaw in the way Stanhope knew meant he was trying not to cry.

"Friday. I'll wire if we don't see each other in person before then."

"I can send my man around if you'd like-"

"No, thank you." They sat side by side, Raleigh swallowing furiously and Stanhope aching to take his hand. The carriage clock pointedly announced the quarter past.

"When will you come over again?" Stanhope asked. He was becoming rather impatient. He was craving physical contact, intimacy, and, if he was honest with himself- affection. There was something so pure and innocent in Raleigh's love for him that he could almost excuse what they did together and how it made him feel. This wasn't a disgusting, sordid affair; it wasn't what the aesthetes called _Greek love_. Damn Oscar Wilde, the furthest they'd got in the past nine months was seeing each other shirtless! He didn't count the thrashings. They weren't in the least sexual.

"I don't know. When I've healed up a bit, I suppose. Unless you can say honestly that you won't want to do _that_ again within the next few days?"

Stanhope nodded gravely. "It's out of my system. For the moment. I suppose we ought to be trying to think up of alternative methods of- of dealing with everything."

Raleigh didn't respond. He was fiddling with his cufflinks, scowling at his dress shoes, and the fact that he was only nineteen jumped out and hit Stanhope like a slap to the face. One could forget ages and dates during a war; it was a habit one slipped into, difficult to leave behind after the return to civilisation. For what felt like the thousandth time, Stanhope wondered what Mr and Mrs Raleigh would think if they knew what their darling son got up to with his old House Captain- their future son-in-law. The whole situation was so absurd that Stanhope knew that unless anyone actually walked in on them, it was highly unlikely that they would come under suspicion for anything untoward. They both had had commissions, and MCs- their hours alone in Stanhope's study were passed off as time between two recuperating war heroes, who had suffered and seen what no man should ever suffer or see. Ironically, as the wedding drew closer, if Raleigh agreed to be best man then they would be spending a great deal more time together. It was a comforting prospect.

There was a rap on the study door. Raleigh jumped slightly, hands flying up to flatten his hair and smooth out the creases in his shirt. He bit his swollen lip, and winced.

"Sir?" called a deep, haughty voice. "The ladies have finished their tea."

Stanhope sighed, reaching down to straighten Raleigh's collar before rolling back his shoulders and slipping a key out of his trouser pocket to unlock the door. His valet, Burns, immediately stepped back as it swung open, inclining his head. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a long face kept meticulously clean-shaven. His eyes were small, set back deep in his skull, and his receding hairline highlighted his considerable expanse of forehead, which was perspiring gently in the afternoon heat.

"The ladies asked me to call the car for them, sir. Apparently Mr Raleigh will be driving them home." He glanced furtively over Stanhope's shoulder into the study.

"Mr Raleigh will be dining with me tonight," Stanhope said firmly, shifting slightly so Raleigh's look of shock was blocked from Burns' view. "Ask Crewe to drive the ladies home. He knows the way, or ought to by now. Has he returned from the garage?"

"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."

"Splendid," Stanhope said cheerfully, clapping his hands. "Mr Raleigh and I shall be along to see them off in a few moments. Ask them if they'd be so kind as to wait for us." Burns nodded and retreated back up the corridor that led to the entrance hall, his well-worn but impeccably shined dress shoes clicking on the polished floors.

"I say, Dennis," Raleigh exploded as soon as the door was shut, "I made it quite clear that I'm not able to stay for dinner-"

"No, you didn't. You said you weren't able to change. And I said that I didn't care."

"But it's ridiculous to send your chauffeur out when I'm perfectly capable of-"

"Look here, Jimmy," Stanhope interrupted smoothly, eyes twinkling, "You're being mightily rude. I've invited you to dinner-"

"A pretty poor invitation," Raleigh muttered under his breath.

"And you're damn well going to stay for it. I had Mrs Gill order a trout especially."

There was still a line of frustration creasing Raleigh's brow, but now the corner of his mouth was twitching upwards. "Fine," he conceded, "But you'll have the decency to let me wash first. We can't risk the servants speculating why I reek of your cologne."

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

Chapter 3

"Have you thought any more about Oxford?"

Raleigh looked up from his plate, where he had been playing with a piece of trout. He glanced instinctively over his shoulder at Burns, who immediately busied himself with straightening the decanters on the sideboard. They had opted- much to Burns' displeasure- to dine in the morning room. The French windows looked out onto the expansive gardens, and the evening sun, which had begun to sink behind the ash trees that marked out the boundary of the Stanhopes' estate, reflected off the silverware. The delicate _fleur de lys_ wallpaper was hung with portraits of the landscape of the New Forest, including a grand watercolour of the estate above the walnut fireplace. It was far more intimate than the grandeur of the dining room, and Stanhope found himself repeatedly missing his mouth with his fork as he watched Raleigh nibble delicately at his meal. He looked drained in the harsh glare of the electric wall lights, the dark rings standing out stubbornly below his eyes.

"Father wants me to go," Raleigh said absently, putting down his cutlery and reaching for his wine glass. "Corpus Christi was his college, so he's awfully bucked that they accepted me. Rather surprised too, I think- he put it down to a lack of applicants. Madge was always the clever one. She could have gone to Cambridge- Girton, I think they were aiming for- before the war. But now she's getting married." He took a large gulp of wine, and Stanhope was momentarily distracted by the bobbing of his Adam's apple in his slender neck.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said genially, scooping up a creamed potato, "What do _you_ think? What do _you_ want to do?"

Raleigh shrugged, replacing his wine glass and reaching out to fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth. He made no move to pick up his knife and fork again. "I think I'd like to go," he said cautiously, "If only to get out of the house. I certainly ought to: as Father said, I'm damned lucky to be offered the opportunity." He placed his knife and fork together neatly on his half-full plate and pushed it away. "Do you think I'd be able to join the rowing team?" he asked hopefully. "Those boat races on the Thames look tremendous fun."

Stanhope smiled fondly at him. "You'll need to build up some arm muscle for that, old man. I could wrap my hand around your bicep and my fingers would meet."

Raleigh laughed, somewhat guiltily, and his eyes flickered down to his unfinished meal. "Perhaps I could be the cox instead," he said softly, and Stanhope's heart swelled with sudden affection for those tired brown eyes, those pale, twitching hands, those soft pink lips…

"Shall I clear, sir?" Burns asked loudly from beside him. Stanhope jumped, dragging his gaze reluctantly from Raleigh's thin face to look up at his valet.

"Go on, then, Burns," he agreed, draining his wine glass before the man could remove it. "What else have you to tempt us with tonight?"

"_Tarte au citron_. Mr Raleigh's favourite, I believe."

Stanhope grinned conspiratorially at Raleigh across the table. The boy rolled his eyes, though there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You are spoiling me tonight," he admonished, but he sounded pleased.

"And why not? Are we not allowed one night of indulgence? A single night of pleasure?" Stanhope leaned across the table, aware that his tone was verging on flirtatious as he saw Raleigh stiffen and glance anxiously over at Burns, his cheeks flooding with colour.

"I… I'm really rather f-full from that trout," he said nervously, "A splendid filet, you must send my compliments to Mrs Gill, Burns-"

"My dear chap, you ate no more than half of it, and you barely touched the soup. Take a little tart, for my sake if not for your own." Stanhope cocked his head playfully to the side. "Humour me? Else Mrs Gill will have my head. Lemons aren't in season and she had to fork out a good-"

"Alright!" Raleigh interjected, throwing his hands up and looking rather alarmed, "Alright, I'll take some tart. But I beg you not to speak of money at the dining table, Dennis- it's frightfully vulgar."

"You sound just like my grandmother, God bless her soul." Stanhope gestured to Burns that they would help themselves to the desert, hoping that he would take the hint and retire. "I sometimes wonder whether the war's changed you at all."

"I sometimes wonder whether there ever _was_ a war," Raleigh retorted bitterly, his tone suddenly so harsh that even Burns glanced at him in surprise. After placing the dessert down carefully in the centre of the table, he withdrew quietly, laden with trays, through the door that concealed the stairs leading down to the kitchens.

"Is this a conversation that ought to be had over whiskey and cigars?" Stanhope asked once the door had swung shut. He began to cut them both generous slices of tart. Raleigh shook his head, drawing his bottom lip anxiously between his teeth.

"No. We don't need to talk about it at all. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have spoken so bluntly. Please forgive me."

Stanhope shrugged lightly, though he made a mental note to re-introduce the topic when they both had some real liquor inside of them. "Of course. But you can always speak candidly to me, you know that. Especially when we're alone."

"But Burns-"

"Burns volunteered at the village hospital during the war, so he knows a little of our experiences, though we never speak of it to each other. He's a man of few words."

"I think he suspects something."

"_I_ think that you're frustrated and upset and it's making you paranoid. I doubt Burns even believes in the possibility of love between a man and a woman, let alone-"

"For God's sake!" Raleigh hissed, upsetting his wine glass. A deep red stain began to spread steadily over the cream lace of the tablecloth. "It's almost as though you _want_ us to be found out! _Anyone_ could be standing outside the doors, listening!"

"They wouldn't have known we were referring to ourselves."

Raleigh snorted. "What other man calls on you almost every day, and writes or wires when he doesn't? This isn't a game!" He righted his glass. "Well, it isn't to me."

Stanhope looked up sharply. "It isn't a game to me either, Jimmy. I know the risks as well as you do." He pushed Raleigh's portion of tart pointedly across the soiled tablecloth. "I know what's at stake. And despite what you seem to think, you're not just someone for me to fool around with until my wedding night." He tried to grasp Raleigh's hand, but the boy snatched it away. Stanhope sighed. "I really… You know how I hate to talk about these things. But I do care, Jimmy. Rather a lot, actually."

The admission hung awkwardly in the air for several long moments. The silence was loud, pressing down upon Stanhope's ears as he took a large gulp of his Château d'Yquem 1894. Not even he, with his MC displayed in pride of place on the drawing room mantelpiece, had been brave enough to touch the 1811 bottle. He had a suspicion that his father was saving it for the wedding- to settle any big match nerves, as his friends from the club would be certain to point out.

"It might do you good to get away from all this for a while," he said carefully, when it became clear that Raleigh wasn't going to speak. "There's a lot to be said for a fresh start. And what a start! Classics at Corpus Christi! What I would give to finally read Mathematics at Jesus." Raleigh wasn't looking at him; he was glaring down at his dessert. "Take this chance while you've got it, old chap, before you end up saddled with a wife and a mortgage and a job at a bank or something equally as tedious."

"I was thinking of going into journalism, actually. Or editing."

Stanhope nearly choked on his wine. "_What_?" he spluttered indignantly. "You, a coarse, unmannered hack? You're too good for that."

"Am I?" Raleigh asked dully, stabbing moodily at his tart. "Father's made it quite clear that my acceptance is simply another sign that the country's going to the dogs. And Mother and Madge weren't exactly jumping to my defence." He raised his head to meet Stanhope's gaze. "They're right, I daresay. I don't really mind." He raised a hesitant forkful of tart to his mouth. "Perhaps I should re-join the army instead."

"Over my dead body," Stanhope growled, pointing his dessert spoon at him threateningly. "Try anything like that and I will personally decapitate you."

Raleigh grinned suddenly, and some of the tension seemed to drain from the room. He sucked on his fork, as though to ensure that he had consumed every last morsel of tart, and Stanhope found himself having to stare very hard at the portrait of a carthorse being shod behind Raleigh's head. He shovelled the last of his own slice into his mouth, drained his glass, and rang the bell.

"Finished?" he enquired, already rising from the table and holding his slightly sweaty hand out for Raleigh to take. Raleigh's smile widened, and he stood up to shyly take the offered hand. Stanhope pulled him gently through the panelled walnut door that led into the drawing room. It was a large room; mahogany china cabinets stood against the walls, and a small bookshelf sat adjacent to the large, ornate fireplace, above which hung a huge gilt mirror. The damask walls- a deep, heavy purple- were hung with portraits of the Stanhope family. There were paintings of the significant individuals, such as Stanhope's great-great grandfather, who had purchased the estate, and Stanhope's grandfather, who had been the MP for North Hampshire for seven years. A portrait of Stanhope himself had been commissioned when he had won his MC, but he was yet to sit for it. He hoped it would be postponed until at least after the wedding; the group portraits of his younger years, several of which now hung in the library, had been tiresome enough. The rest of the room was filled with heavy mahogany furniture and upholstered settees in dark, depressing colours. The hearth rug was the same shade of violet as the carpet, and Stanhope watched in amusement as Raleigh- as usual- tripped over the edge of it as he moved to retrieve the matches from the mantelpiece. A willow-patterned china vase filled with dusky pink roses- the only delicate ornament in the room- stood in the centre, with a photograph of Stanhope in his officer's uniform on the right, and the open case displaying his MC on the left. Raleigh glanced at it thoughtfully.

"Do you polish it every day? Yours looks a good deal cleaner than mine."

Stanhope snorted, pulling his cigarette case out of the inside pocket of his jacket and offering it to Raleigh. "Mother cleans it every Sunday after church. She won't even allow the maids to dust it; she doesn't trust anyone with it, including me."

Raleigh laughed, and lit a cigarette. He handed it carefully to Stanhope and lit one for himself, sitting a respectable distance away from him on the settee.

"I say, what about a brandy, Dennis? King's Ginger if you've got it."

"Where's your class, man? But of course I've got it. There's a half bottle in here, and probably another three-quarters of one in my study if we run out."

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Dennis?" Raleigh asked, part teasing, part incredulous. His face had flushed a deep pink, hazel eyes darkening slightly as he took a deep drag of his cigarette. His hair flopped across his forehead, for once unrestrained by oil. Stanhope didn't think he'd ever looked more desirable.

"Perhaps," he murmured, pouring out the brandy for Raleigh and a whiskey for himself. "I like you best when your morals are loose."

Raleigh laughed again softly, taking another drag of his cigarette. A hazy cloud of smoke hung around his head; the woody, slightly bitter scent made Stanhope's head spin. He handed him his drink mutely, lips parting slightly in shock as Raleigh swallowed half of the measure down in one gulp. He _loved_ Raleigh like this: so sure of himself and who he was and so _free_. His usual quiet acquiescence, his insecure, flighty nervousness became eclipsed by a daring confidence that could catch Stanhope unaware and ensnare him when they were alone like this. He rarely ever saw this side of the boy- had seen it even less as the wedding loomed closer- but when Raleigh looked at him like that, pupils dark and dilated with lust, blood staining his cheeks in a rush of arousal, Stanhope was suddenly consumed by a carnal, predatory _need_ to take the boy, to take him now, to rip those well-cut clothes off him and taste every area of pale, smooth, untouched skin-

"You look as though you want to ravish me," Raleigh whispered. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, sending himself up, and the blush colouring his cheeks quickly became one of self-conscious embarrassment as Stanhope continued to gaze steadily at him, whiskey in one hand, cigarette held loosely in the other.

"This from the boy who refused to hear money spoken of at the dinner table," Stanhope remarked. His mouth was dry He moved to place his glass down on a side-table, stubbing out his cigarette in a thickly-cut glass ashtray.

"Well, we're quite alone," Raleigh observed, sipping delicately at the remainder of his drink. "I can 'speak candidly' now."

"Amen to that."

Stanhope slowly pulled off his brown smoking jacket and draped it over the seat of a high-backed chair sat against the wall. The sun was setting in earnest now; a stray ray caught the edge of the gilded mirror, and for a moment the wilting arrangement of roses glowed blood-red as the light hit Stanhope's retinas. He blinked. Turning back to Raleigh, he was surprised and slightly gratified to see him staring in undisguised awe. Loosening his tie and undoing the button of his collar, he sank down next to the boy and reached up to move a few stray hairs from his forehead.

"Don't stop," Raleigh whispered. His hands were trembling as he reached up to remove his own tie (having deemed it too hot to wear a smoking jacket to dinner), but they stilled as Stanhope placed his own, rather larger, hands atop. His eyes grew impossibly wide as Stanhope- with as much care as he could manage in his sensitised state- unknotted the tie himself and pulled it gently from around his neck.

"Would you like to keep your shirt on?" Stanhope asked quietly. Raleigh swallowed, but shook his head.

"You've seen- _it_ before," he said uncertainly, "You said it doesn't r-repulse you-"

"It doesn't," Stanhope reassured him gently, beginning to unbutton the boy's shirt. Raleigh reached out tentatively, but quickly folded his hands in his lap as Stanhope met his eyes. "Go on," he encouraged, giving him a smile, "I won't bite."

Raleigh looked unsure whether to smile or not. He settled on nodding determinedly, and he reached out again to brush his fingertips over Stanhope's own shirt buttons. There was silence for several moments as both men worked to rid the other of their garment. When they both sat, shirtless and breathless, Stanhope's eyes flickered to the door that led into the entrance hall. There was an impossible ache between his legs; he couldn't remember ever having felt so aroused so quickly.

"Lock the door," he ordered softly, pressing a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to Raleigh's lips. Raleigh stumbled up from the settee, wrapping an arm around his naked torso and moving towards an over-large writing desk. As he fumbled through old papers, empty inkwells and cigar boxes (the maids were forbidden from touching anything on this desk), Stanhope was given a clear view of the boy's back. His wound hadn't healed as cleanly as the surgeon had hoped, and Raleigh had been left with a large, ugly scar, stomach-churningly wide in places, running parallel with his spine. It began just below his shoulder blades- which were jutting out rather alarmingly, as though he were due to sprout wings- and ended several inches above his coccyx. The shrapnel had cut particularly deep into his lower back, and though his spine had only suffered a bad fracture and a degree of chipping rather than the break predicted by the stretcher-bearers, he occasionally experienced a stabbing pain whenever he bent to pick something up or was jolted in the motor-car. Raleigh hated anyone to see it. Stanhope knew he was ashamed of it- it was a part of the war that would always be with him, a constant, jarring reminder of what he had suffered. He had cried the first time he had let Stanhope see it.

When the door was locked, and the key thrown carelessly back into the mess on the writing desk, Raleigh picked his way back across the room. He hovered nervously by the arm of the settee, eyes darting anywhere but Stanhope. The room was growing dim as the sun sunk further below the horizon, but Stanhope was taken aback by how thin Raleigh looked. His clavicle was a sharp groove that led awkwardly into knobbly shoulders; his ribcage jutted out alarmingly above a tiny waist; his stomach was completely flat; pale, almost translucent skin stretched tightly over his protruding hipbones. He had lost the muscle definition that he had built up playing rugby, and it looked to Stanhope as though there was nothing protecting his bones bar a thin layer of skin.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, the unseen-to ache between his legs beginning slowly to recede. Raleigh looked incredibly, impossibly fragile, as though a slight push would snap him in half. "Do you want to tell me what the bloody hell you've been doing to yourself?"

_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

_DISCLAIMER: see Chapter 1_

Chapter 4

Stanhope awoke to the muffled sound of screaming shattering the stillness of the silent house. His room was extremely dark; the easy chair loomed out of the gloom like a hunchback, the writing desk and toilet-table casting skewed, grotesque shadows as he struggled to sit up, groping groggily for the lamp on his bedside table. His fingers slipped and the lamp lurched over the edge to land with a loud _clunk_ on the floor. The bulb shattered, sending fragments of glass skittering across the room and under the bed. Cursing, Stanhope rubbed furiously at his eyes; bright white spots danced before them, and he rolled in disorientation to the opposite side of the bed. Another loud scream rang out in the room next door.

There was a sharp rap at Stanhope's door. He swore again, heaving himself out of bed and stumbling in the direction of the knocking, hip colliding painfully with the corner of a chest of drawers. He squinted over his shoulder at the clock, but it was too dark to make out the time. He yanked the door open in a temper.

"_What?_" he snapped tiredly. Burns was clad in a long woollen dressing gown and maroon slippers. His hair was in disarray and stubble was beginning to dust his chin.

"It's Mr Raleigh, sir," the valet said, and his usual haughty tone had been replaced with something entirely different, something foreign to Stanhope's ears. "He's calling out, sir, but he's locked the door and I thought you might-"

"The little idiot," Stanhope snarled, not pausing to snatch up his own dressing gown as he pushed Burns roughly aside. The footman, Geoffrey, was hovering uncertainly outside of Raleigh's door; he hurriedly stifled a yawn as he saw Stanhope approach.

"Do you know where the master key is kept?" Stanhope demanded. The footman gaped helplessly before Burns slipped smoothly into Stanhope's line of vision.

"Mr Nixon entrusted it to Mrs Wilcox, sir, when he left for town with your mother and father. She's awake- shall I-?"

"Yes, yes- no, actually, send Geoffrey." Burns nodded imperiously to the footman, who turned on his heel and fled up the hall in the direction of the back stairs, the string of his dressing gown trailing pathetically behind him. "And be quick about it!" Stanhope called after him. Burns drew back swiftly as Stanhope squared his shoulders, raising a fist to hammer on the wooden door. A sharp scream within the room shot straight to his heart and seemed to reverberate through him in shockwaves. He began to pound wildly on the door, the blood rushing to his face.

"Jimmy!" he bellowed. "Open this bloody door, you fool!" Raleigh screamed again, and Stanhope very nearly kicked the wall. "Open the door. OPEN THE DOOR!"

"He appears to be in great distress, sir," Burns ventured tentatively, as Stanhope gave a snarl of frustration. "Ought I telephone for the doctor?"

"He'll bloody need one when I've finished with him!" Stanhope growled, running a hand through his tousled hair and slumping against the wall. "Sleeping with the door locked… And he'll be on his back too, no doubt… God knows how he got into Oxford, he's a bloody idiot…"

The next scream was louder, more piercing.

"I really think I ought to telephone-"

"Oh, for God's sake, man-"

They were saved from a dispute by the return of a breathless Geoffrey, who careered back up the corridor, key in hand. Stanhope took it from him wordlessly and, accompanied by another terrified scream, the three men burst into the room.

Stanhope's eyes had by now adjusted to the gloom, and he was able to make out the shell of Raleigh's four-poster. The heavy brocade bedclothes lay in tangles, screwed up at the foot of the bed and trailing forlornly onto the floor. Raleigh lay spread-eagled on his back, his hands fisted in the sheets as he arched up from the bed and emitted an intelligible stream of strangled cries. Stanhope shot forward, shouting to Geoffrey and Burns to wait outside and shut the door; they retreated gratefully, faces pale and eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.

Raleigh was drenched in a cold sweat. He was shivering violently, his sharp rows of teeth chattering and knocking together. His face had drained of colour- he looked grey against the white, sweat-dampened bed sheets- and he was gasping shallowly, his thin chest rising and falling unevenly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, the tendons in his neck jutting out as he threw back his head and _screamed_. Stanhope winced as the sound scraped at his ears; he reached towards Raleigh, shaking his shoulders roughly.

"Jimmy- Jimmy! Come on, old man, wake up, there's a good chap-"

"Osborne… not Osborne…"

"No, no, Jimmy, it's just a dream! It's not real!"

"Can't… he c-can't…"

Another ear-splitting scream.

"For God's sake!"

In sheer desperation, Stanhope seized the almost-full pitcher of water from the left-hand bedside table. With shaking hands, he upended it unceremoniously over Raleigh's face as the grandfather clock in the corridor struck a quarter to three.

The reaction was instantaneous. It would have been comical, had the situation not been so serious. Raleigh shot up in bed, uttering another loud scream- but this time one of shock rather than of terror. His eyes flew open and he blinked, immediately reaching up to rub the water from them. He looked around wildly, lips parted, chest heaving, spluttering as water streamed down his face from his sopping wet hair. His wide, terrified eyes locked with Stanhope's and for a horrifying moment Stanhope thought that he wasn't going to recognise him- but then Raleigh's face crumpled and he threw himself at Stanhope, trembling violently and choking on his own ragged breaths. He clutched at Stanhope's back, anchoring himself to fistfuls of plaid nightshirt, burying his face in the man's neck as he chanted, over and over again:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry…"

Stanhope's arms encircled the boy's tiny waist and gripped it fiercely. He sat down awkwardly on the edge of the bed and pressed their chests together, feeling the heat from Raleigh's feverish brow sear the skin of his neck. The rest of the boy was horribly cold and clammy. He was beginning to twitch erratically; the top of his head knocked into Stanhope's chin and he was emitting odd little gasping sounds. The shoulder of Stanhope's nightshirt was soaked through to the skin.

"Jimmy… Jimmy, darl- you've got to calm down…"

"You h-have to believe me, D-Dennis, I w-wish he hadn't w-waited-"

_A hand grenade- while he was waiting for Raleigh._

"Don't worry about that now, Jimmy."

"But it's m-my f-fault-"

"Stop that."

_The one man I could trust- my best friend- the one man I could talk to as man to man- who understood everything-_

"It should've been m-me! He was the b-brave one, I didn't d-do-"

_Must you sit on Osborne's bed?_

"I said stop it!"

Raleigh stiffened. He quietened. Even with his face buried in his neck, Stanhope knew he would be biting his bottom lip ferociously, eyes screwed shut. He was surprised, however, to feel hands scrabbling at his chest, attempting to push him away. He drew back slightly on reflex, and Raleigh's head immediately snapped up from his neck. He began to struggle, trying to squirm out of Stanhope's tight grip. He pushed at his shoulders, but Stanhope grabbed his wrists firmly.

"Sit still. Take deep breaths."

"Stop it! Get off, stop touching me-"

"Don't fight me, James."

"Let me go!"

"You're behaving like a child!"

_Don't 'Dennis' me! Stanhope's my name! You're not at school!_

Raleigh's distress was growing; he was thrashing in Stanhope's hold, and if Stanhope's hands hadn't been occupied with restraining his wrists then he would have slapped him. He attempted to move the boy, to pin him to the mattress until he'd calmed down, but in an unexpected show of strength Raleigh tore himself away from the bed and flew to the other side of the room. He was wheezing badly.

"Don't- t-touch me," he gasped out, clutching at his chest as he struggled to draw breath, "I don't- want you near me." His face was shrouded in shadow, but the break in his voice had been sharp and clear.

"You're hysterical," Stanhope snapped coldly, tugging absently at his nightshirt to straighten it. "Be quiet and calm down else I shall _make_ you."

"Don't t-talk to me- like that!" Raleigh shrieked, leaning heavily against the fireplace. "You're not my f-father!" He took a great shuddering breath, and suddenly collapsed to his knees. He hunched over, bracing his hands in front of him as he vomited onto the hearthrug. Stanhope was instantly by his side, his hand placed awkwardly on the boy's lower back. He winced as a particularly violent retch brought up foul-smelling stomach acid. Pushing back Raleigh's fringe from his forehead, he tested his temperature with the back of his hand: he was burning up.

Raleigh eventually slumped back against the fireplace, eyes closed. His knees were drawn up to his chest and he was shivering uncontrollably, cold sweat once more beading on his forehead. Stanhope got shakily to his feet, avoiding the pool of vomit as he hurried over to the door. Opening it a crack, he was unsurprised to see Burns waiting patiently outside.

"You were right," he informed the valet in hushed tones. "Telephone for Dr Bligh."

* * *

"Well, it's not Spanish flu, Lord be praised," announced the doctor an hour later, removing his stethoscope from Raleigh's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Stanhope saw Burns make the sign of the cross. "You're lucky- there's an estate just south of Brockenhurst that have lost two maids and a hall boy to it. No-one upstairs as of yet, but they've sent the daughter's baby away for a few weeks just in case."

Stanhope and Burns had moved Raleigh to the parlour as soon as they were sure that he had finished vomiting. The doctor had arrived within the half-hour, and had proceeded to examine Raleigh with a brisk, detached abruptness that had Stanhope aching to take the boy's hand. He was currently huddled under a blanket, face grey and drawn as he stared dully into the fireplace. He looked tiny- almost breakable.

Stanhope lowered himself gingerly into an easy chair. "So if it's not Spanish flu, then it's not contagious? I don't need to implement quarantine?"

Dr Bligh chuckled. "Certainly not. As far as I can see, this little episode is the result of young Master Raleigh neglecting to take care of himself."

Stanhope glanced up quickly at Burns, who immediately cleared his throat.

"Shall I telephone Mrs Raleigh, sir?" he asked loudly.

"No need to trouble her at this hour. But if you could draft a telegram to my father and have it sent when the Post Office opens, then I would be greatly obliged."

Burns inclined his head, and, after an exchange of goodnights, withdrew.

"Now, Mr Raleigh," Dr Bligh said, reaching for his leather case, "You have a moderate fever, so I'm afraid that means several days of bed rest. You've lost a lot of fluid so keep plenty of water at hand, and I recommend a hot honey and lemon each evening until your temperature goes down. It'll be uncomfortable for you, especially at this time of year, but you mustn't open any windows." He turned to address Stanhope. "Keep a fire going in his room until the fever breaks. If he begins vomiting again, put it out, but do not open a window. His immune system is not strong enough to withstand a chill and it may develop into pneumonia." He suddenly looked sharply at Raleigh. "You are not asthmatic, are you, Mr Raleigh?" Raleigh shook his head slowly. "Your chest is not at all in good condition. War?"

When Raleigh just stared blankly ahead, Stanhope cut in. "He was caught in the back with some shrapnel, and when we were waiting for the stretcher-bearers the dugout took a hit. He was almost asphyxiated."

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose they focused more on the spinal injury than on any lung damage at the hospital. How long ago was this?"

"March. They'd thought his spine was broken. For a time he couldn't move his legs."

"I take it that the spine wasn't broken, though?"

"A bad fracture, and some chipping. He's banned from rugby for life."

"Quite so." Dr Bligh rummaged through his case, drawing out a pen and what looked like a blank prescription form. "I think it's time we did something about that chest, Mr Raleigh. I'm prescribing you an inhaler. Whenever you find it difficult to catch your breath, particularly after a period of physical exertion-" Stanhope suddenly became fascinated by a loose thread on the sleeve of his nightshirt- "then you _must_, and I cannot stress this enough, use your inhaler. We cannot risk asphyxiation." He handed the form to Stanhope, peering at him sternly over the rim of his wire spectacles. "Ensure this is taken along to the pharmacy as soon as possible. If there is no improvement after a month, telephone and I'll have him admitted. In the meantime, I'll try to get in contact with the hospital that treated his battle wounds."

"I'd speak to his father. He ought to have the relevant paperwork filed somewhere."

"Very good." Dr Bligh again turned back to Raleigh, and there was an oddly paternal sternness to his gaze. "Now, Mr Raleigh- I've prescribed and recommended all that I can. Get yourself back to bed and stay there. Mr Stanhope will play nurse, won't you?" He added, grinning, and Stanhope forced a smile back to him. "You are dangerously underweight, young man, and with such a weak, fragile chest-"

"I'm not underweight."

Dr Bligh blinked. He shot Stanhope a confused look, as though he was half convinced that it had been he who had uttered the words.

"And I'm not weak and fragile. I'm fine."

Raleigh's voice was thin with exhaustion. His gaze hadn't wavered from the fireplace. His eyes, pale in the glare of the electric light, looked too big for his face.

The doctor seemed momentarily stunned, before he tugged on the end of his moustache as though to pull himself together. "You'll forgive the impertinence, but I would never walk out onto a cricket pitch and tell you how to keep wicket; so I'd appreciate it if you didn't argue with my diagnosis. You are severely malnourished- that is not opinion, but fact. Are you eating three square meals a day?"

"Yes."

"Three courses at each meal?"

"Yes."

"Are you exercising at a level acceptable for your state of health and strength?"

"Yes."

"Have you abstained from rugby since you were instructed to forgo it?"

"Yes."

Dr Bligh sighed in exasperation, snapping the metal clasp of his case shut with rather more vigour than was required. "You are nineteen, Mr Raleigh: you are not a child anymore. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself. Whilst I understand that the trauma you have undergone-"

He got not further. For Raleigh had lifted himself from the settee, the blanket pooling at his ankles, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

_TBC..._


End file.
